


Dirt

by Shaitanah



Category: Being Human
Genre: 1950s, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/pseuds/Shaitanah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Cutler reconsiders his worldview during his wife’s funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shirogiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.   
> A/N: largely inspired by Shiro; esp. the I thought I told you to bury all the pieces part. Thank you for the inspiration, darling! <3

It was the stench that did it. The dank, acrid smell of things that should be on the inside of the body but were brought to the surface. Bone. Viscera. Blood.

 

Nick doubled over and vomited. It seemed a sacrilege to do it in this stuffy room in the presence of his wife’s broken corpse, but he could not hold that poisonous blood any longer. Particles of it had already been sucked into his bloodstream and would remain in him no matter how hard he tried to get it all out.

 

“Shall I dispose of the remains?” Louis asked dispassionately.

 

Nick’s head started spinning. That word. _Remains_. As if they were talking about lunch leftovers.

 

“No,” said Hal. “Nick should do it.”

 

It took a while for the words to sink in. Nick snapped his head up. The thought of touching this – the _remains_ – even looking in that direction made him sick all over again.

 

“Mrs Cutler’s body belongs to her grieving husband,” Hal drawled. “Fellows. We should give Mr Cutler some privacy.”

 

No. It wasn’t what Nick wanted. Not being alone with _this_. But he couldn’t find the voice to protest. They closed the door but didn’t lock it, and he sat on the floor, looking at it, and couldn’t think of a way to bring himself to get up.

 

* * *

 

Nick would have gone for cremation. It was faster and allowed for a cheaper coffin, but Rachel had a fondness for plants. Perhaps she would have liked it if something grew out of her.

 

That was all he could give her. He didn’t inform her parents and he certainly didn’t have an obituary printed in a paper. It seemed wrong, but if anything, the funeral was a test, which he could not fail. How do you bury someone without attracting attention? How do you put a loved one in the ground without drawing crowds of relatives you’ve never even met before, without sitting through the service and accepting condolences? How do you set up a headstone with a proper inscription and get a death certificate and live on like it never happened?

 

Nick hadn’t seen Hal for a week, but he felt his presence acutely at the service. Why was he even there? Hal, in his expensive attire, with his razor-sharp teeth and his venomous tongue, the reaper that had smiled at Nick in that jail cell – and all had been settled. Hal never asked him, but Nick would have said yes. Of course he would.

 

“I took a stroll through the cemetery the other day,” Nick said, without looking up from the coffin. They were alone in the empty funeral home, waiting for the coffin to be transported to the gravesite. “To test the waters. I’ve been wondering how I could walk on consecrated ground without bursting into flames or something.”

 

He couldn’t really afford a fancy coffin. He wasn’t even sure what this one was made of. Just wood. Just something that grew and was then chopped down and converted into something that was made to return to the ground.

 

“It largely depends on your point of view,” Hal said. “Consecrated or not, at the end of the day it’s just dirt.”

 

Nick turned to face him. “What are you doing here, Hal?”

 

“I came to pay my respects to the late Mrs Cutler.”

 

He had a way of pronouncing names that made their owners want to beg. Nick wanted to say, “don’t,” but the word got stuck in his throat. Hal addressed him a small smile that faded when his intent look slipped down to Nick’s hand. He took it in his, deceptively gently, and inspected the ring on Nick’s finger.

 

“I thought I told you to bury all the pieces.”

 

“I need something to remember her by,” said Nick. “Please.”

 

He couldn’t stand seeing the look of disappointment on Hal’s face. He tried to turn his head, but Hal leaned closer, catching his eye, and said with a hint of fierce impatience in his tone:

 

“I don’t need you to remember her. You don’t need you to remember her. Very soon, she will be one of many. Stop torturing yourself, Nick. She tasted good, didn’t she?”

 

She tasted like blood. There was no question of good or bad; blood was life.

 

Hal trailed his finger down the buttons of Nick’s shirt, as if counting them, and slowly began to unfasten them.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

But there’s only so much pain one can take. His was beginning to fade. Some of it would always be there, ingrained in his bones like Hal’s blood would always flow through his veins, but the terrible weight was shifting, and Nick felt that he was grasping at straws. It felt a bit like drowning, which, they said, was quite a horrific manner of dying. ( _They_ had obviously never been attacked by a vampire.)

 

“Like this?” Hal asked and pressed a small wooden crucifix to his chest.

 

Just looking at it made Nick’s head spin. Feeling it against his skin like a lump of hot coal made him stagger backwards; his spine collided with something hard. The coffin. His stomach lurched.

 

“They used to hurt me too,” Hal said, absently. “I grew out of it.” He shifted slightly, the flaps of his coat swaying about him, and Nick could see years, centuries trailing after him. He didn’t know how old Hal was exactly (Fergus had been recruited a century before, and Hal had been old even then). “Oh, I believe in His power. I just don’t believe He holds any over me.”

 

Nick shuddered against the coffin. Hal’s gloved hand slid down his exposed chest and suddenly the crucifix was gone. Hal lowered his head and traced the searing outline of the cross with his tongue. Nick took a shaky breath and felt as if he was struggling barely below the surface, drawing water into his lungs with every forced intake of air. He would have liked to believe it was the proximity of a holy object that impeded his movements, but both he and Hal knew it was not the case.

 

Hal looked up at him with dark, hungry eyes. Nick could not see his reflection in them, but he knew his face mirrored Hal’s. He looked past his maker towards the open doors of the funeral home. He could hear blood beating through the veins of the people outside. For a moment, it was all he could hear, and Hal was all he could feel.

 

* * *

 

Things were quite simple really. As the burial progressed, Nick found himself wondering how he could have been so focused entirely on the wrong things. He watched the people around him surreptitiously and thought that, hey, if the government had stopped rationing chocolate biscuits this year, then, surely, he should also cease to deny himself the things he wanted. Taking, as Hal had taught him, was the most natural thing in the world.

 

He slid the ring off of his finger and dropped it into the open grave. It bounced off the coffin lid and vanished in the dark maw of the ground. Nick turned around and walked away. God had kindly relinquished His claim on him and signed him over to a new deity. He would pay his tributes in blood for as long as it took.

 

_April 11–27, 2012_


End file.
